Hell is a Starbucks
by Hobochan
Summary: ShikaTema, AU; Lazy photographer Nara Shikamaru absolutely hates highpowered supermodel Temari, but only after he meets with her on a job assignment at a Starbucks or Hell itself, as he comes to consider it.


**Hell Is A Starbucks**  
_On 103rd & Broadway_

The way she strutted down the catwalk made it glaringly apparent that she knew she was the hottest girl there. Golden blond hair bouncing in four perky pigtails behind her and shimmering in the light, smooth shapely legs kicking out with each step, and the sort of smile that struck fear and awe into the hearts of men, Temari had everything it took to be a model on the runway. And Shikamaru…well…he just took the photos. From where he was perched, each time a new girl started her run, he took another barrage of photos, grateful for the 4GB card his place of employment had given him. The camera itself had almost cost him an arm and a leg—literally, he would swear.

He hated her. More than any other model there.

Really, he shouldn't have. She was perfect. Her complexion was clear, her figure was amazing, and she always gave him the best looks. Rarely did he have to touch up her photos, unless he made some mistake, and then it was usually a few quick clicks, or one of the many macros he'd created in his laziness, and the pictures were flawless. There was nothing to hate about her from a photographer's standpoint. In fact, she was practically a dream, and might as well have been with how untouchable she was. In his career so far, he'd learned that some models were nice, many mean, some stuck up, and others downright bitchy. But Temari was all of the above, along with a dash of rude, a pinch of pushy, and a whole heaping tablespoon of troublesome. And for what it was worth, up until four months prior, he had never given her a second thought, maybe even liked how easy she was on the camera. It was no secret that he didn't lust after any of these twig-like women, so his liking of her really only went as far as the fact that her mere existence made his job easier. But then four months ago, she'd gone and made all of that null.

* * *

Taxis sucked. Traffic sucked. The whole city sucked, and so did his job, Shikamaru grumbled inwardly, as they sat stuck in an intersection, already running late for his next job. Of course, it wasn't his fault. He'd gotten the call at 7AM that morning, and actually almost hadn't picked it up. Now he was regretting it. It had been buzzing all the way across his bedroom, on the dresser, and his bed had been nice and warm, but in fear that it might be his mother calling him, he'd hauled himself over to his phone. Over to his doom was more like it. Another photographer had called out sick, so he had to fill in on some publicity shots for this Temari chick. He said he'd do it, and he never went back on his word, as much trouble as it may have been. And of course he knew the name. She was the biggest name in modeling at the moment, by his calculations. He just didn't see what was so special about her. But he was _different_. Chouji told him this, Ino told him this, his professor Asuma told him this. He just wasn't attracted to women. Asexual, he liked to call himself. Any other man would have been chomping at the bit to get within a hundred yards of Temari, and here he was, dreading being within ten feet of her. And it would have been the same no matter who she was. By and large, Shikamaru hated women. They were bossy, obnoxious, and above all: troublesome. 

At the very least, he wished they could have met somewhere other than Starbucks. What a pretentious place, and definitely not _his_ kind of place at all. Then again, his favorite place was his bed, so he wasn't one to talk. But everyone seemed to think he would be into those ritzy little coffee shops. After all, all photographers were artists, and all artists liked coffee shops. Shikamaru liked coffee, naturally—it was what had kept him running throughout college—but he preferred his fast and cheap. Not the over priced, way-too-bitter stuff that they always served. But he wasn't there to socialize, which he was thankful for. He was just there to take some photos so that Temari could look like she was a people-person, when—little did he actually know—she was anything _but_.

Finally, running a whole three minutes late, the cab pulled up to the corner, and Shikamaru shoved the cash forward, not caring for the change since he would get reimbursed for it later, and hopped out of the cab, nearly dropping his camera bag in the process. He would not have been pleased to have such an expensive bag dropped in a dirty city puddle, if only for all the groans he'd get from the people around him. Recovering and slamming the cab door shut hurriedly, he pushed his way through the sidewalk crowd, managing to get to the door and force his way in, giving a glance around for whoever he was supposed to be meeting.

At a table in a corner, she sat with her legs crossed, one stiletto-clad foot bouncing impatiently, while long, manicured nails tapped against a white coffee mug around which her fingers were curled. So the pigtails thing wasn't just a stage style—she actually wore it like that in public. As her hand moved to lift the mug to her expertly-painted lips, the gold bangles on her wrist clinked against each other and shimmered in the soft yellow lighting pouring down from light fixture overhead. In fact, the light itself gave her a sort of golden glow, black shirt, denim skirt, and all. As she set the mug back down, she took a glance around and her eyes locked with his.

And for some inexplicable reason, he blushed. _The_ Shikamaru Nara, the man who no model could seduce, completely froze up as those half-lidded, disinterested, strangely blue-green eyes caught his. It was absolutely preposterous, and he literally shook it off, pretending to shake his hair out of his eyes, as he made his way over—not too quickly, of course—setting the camera bag down on another one of the chairs, and holding a hand out to greet her.

"Uhh, you must be Ms. Sabaku," he greeted rather uneasily, although he'd never really been good with introductions or socializing. He just took the pictures and took the occasional nap in the dark room. "Shikamaru, the photographer."

"Nice to meet you, Shikamaru," she replied pleasantly, although her grin seemed to hold something much more sinister. Or was he just imagining things? Either way, when she took his hand in hers, her fingers were frighteningly ice cold, and he was relieved when she finally took hers back. "You _can_ call me Temari, I promise I won't bite too hard."

"Yeah, okay," he said with a nod, paused for a few minutes, scratched awkwardly at the back of his head, and decided that maybe it was his turn to speak up again when she gave him an expectant look. "So, who are we waiting for?"

"_Waiting_ for?" Wonderful. Now she seemed annoyed. "We're not waiting for anyone. I was waiting for you."

"I thought this was supposed to be a publicity shoot." He was already starting to get a headache, although that was a fairly common occurrence, enough so that he always carried a small bottle of aspirin in his camera bag, if absolutely necessary.

"Publicity shoot?" she scoffed, and gave enough of a laugh to attract the attention of a few other people around. "Hell no. I was told that I have to get to know you, and that's what I'm going to do, now sit. Can I get you something?"

The way her voice changed from undeniably evil to sickeningly sweet made him cringe, but he complied anyway, moving the bag from the chair to the table, and taking the seat reluctantly. He tried to focus his attention on anything else—the street outside, the lights, the Indie music coming in over the speakers, the baristas—anything but her, but eventually, inevitably, his eyes came back to her face, to find her staring at him, waiting for a response.

"Just…just a latte, I guess."

As she nodded and got up to put in the order, he noticed that he was sweating. It had to be the lighting, or the thermostat was set way too high. It couldn't have been the fact that he was suddenly thrust into making friends with one of the most striking women in fashion. Then again, Shikamaru didn't make friends on his own, unless you really wanted to count the guys from the chess club and the programming club. But making those friends was no feat. But she was smart, and cultured, and hot as hell, and had everyone clamoring for her attention. And here he was getting it for free, without even having to try. Without even wanting it.

It wasn't too long, and not nearly long enough, before she returned with two more mugs and set them down, one in front of him, the other in front of where she eventually took a seat after straightening out her skirt.

"You know, it's customary to bring flowers, or something like that," she stated matter-of-factly as she took an experimental sip off her own mug.

"What?" He was halfway to giving his own cup a little attention when the question caught him a little off guard. She acted as if he had been planning to come here just to chat with her, and at that point, he had half a mind to run back home, climb back under the sheets, and go back to sleep, pretending that none of this had ever happened. In fact, he really wanted to do that, but it would probably get him fired. "I was expecting to be taking photos, not getting chummy. Why do you need to get to know me, anyway?"

She scoffed again, and looked away as if suddenly very perturbed. No, scratch that, she _was_ suddenly perturbed.

"I'm supposed to get to know more people in the _industry_, or something like that," she replied with just a hint of disdain on industry, "as if I need more anything more than the look. Tell me, Nara. What do you think of me?"

Leave it to a woman to ask the most awkward question that she could. Her smoky eyes stared at him, waiting for the answer, and as she looked on, he sputtered for a couple seconds, nearly knocked the mug on the floor, and almost toppled his chair over. How was it that this woman was eliciting a response out of him? Normally he'd just sit back and make some clever, snarky comment. But he, of all people, was flustered. Him. Flustered. Him. Making an effort to respond. It was absolutely unheard of. And she seemed to be entertained watching him. Damn it, she did it on purpose. She wanted to see him squirm. She didn't really care what he thought of her, because she knew she was good. She just wanted to torture him, play with him, and he wondered if this was how she normally tried to make friends. It would explain why, after all this time, she had no other contacts in the industry, and had to resort to trying to make friends with some no-name fashion photographer.

Eventually, he managed to compose himself, running a hand through his hair to smooth it back behind his ear, clearing his throat a little to ward away any hint of his discomfort at the idea. This shouldn't be too hard, he realized. He always had to tell Ino how she looked when she dragged him on shopping trips, and he had learned quite a lot on the ways to respond to a woman when she asked how a dress looked or if her butt looked big. All he had to do now was combine all those techniques into one sort of general statement. Maybe mention something about his profession to add relevance to whatever bullshit he managed to spew out, because after all, she wouldn't know the difference. He'd be surprised if she even knew how to work a camera, let alone know much about composition or f-stops or apertures or lenses, or any of that at all.

"Well, you…naturally look amazing on camera," he started with, and noting the amused smirk, and gave a sigh, letting his shoulders relax a little. That's just was she wanted, to make him uncomfortable, and he wasn't going to do that. "You have a great look and everything you take down the runway looks amazing on you."

By then, she was grinning deviously again. What was she plotting now? She had already wrung the embarrassment out of him, made him wriggle in her grasp by forcing him to answer such a question, and now she was brewing up something in that mind of hers. He knew a lot of models, as a matter of course, but he had never known one to be so outwardly evil and conniving, and he'd only known her for a grand total of ten minutes. Of all the times for his mother to not be calling him to pester him about something, this had to be it. She absolutely couldn't have called and saved him from this hell.

He'd never known before that Hell was a Starbucks on 103rd & Broadway.

"I didn't ask what you think of my _modeling_, I asked what you thing of me," she finally said, her sarcasm grating on his nerves just a little more. "You must think I'm ugly, then."

Did she just say…? She did just did just say that he had implied she was ugly. That wasn't what he thought, it really, and honestly wasn't. If he'd had to say something, she was one of the better looking models in his opinion. She actually looked like she ate something every once in a while, and she had a nice, curvy figure, not that sort of two-by-four figure the rest of them seemed to have. Really, she was beautiful, sexy, sleek, but those sorts of things didn't register in his mind. Beautiful, not beautiful, he didn't really care. All he wanted out of life, in the lady department, was a mediocre woman who kept quiet and would bear him a son and a daughter, then let him retire in peace, nagging-free. In essence, he was perfect for the job he was at, since he never looked at the models as anything other than a person in clothing, or a lack thereof. He didn't see them as sexy or objects of desire, just as he didn't see this one. In fact, she was shaping up to be the antithesis of desire.

"I…no! I didn't mean that, I just never—"

"You're brave. I like men who're brave," she interrupted, smiling still. He was slowly coming to hate that smile that masked such wicked intentions. "Not many men can say to me they don't think I'm sexy, unless they're gay. Unless, of course, you _are_ gay."

"That's…that's not it at all." Now she was implying that he was a homosexual. Not that he had anything against that. In fact, he didn't _care_. "I'm just…not really attracted to women. Or men. I just don't give a damn."

Her smile faded ever so slightly, replaced by a hint of curiosity. He had piqued her interest, he could tell it already. Now he'd gone and done it. Now she'd want him to elaborate, and he would have to explain to her his life plan, and his view on women, and she would inevitably, like every strong-willed woman, smack him for being a chauvinistic pig, and the evening would end up with them making enemies rather than friends. Giving a sigh at the thought, he lifted a hand to rub at his tired eyes, letting himself sink even further into the chair. He just wanted to get this over with so he could get on with finding another job, after he was inevitably fired for screwing this meeting up. If his boss found out that he had scorned Temari and turned her against the company's name, not only would he lose the job, but there would be hell to pay, and he'd end up working in a WalMart photocenter, which didn't sound so bad in theory, but certainly would mean more work if he wanted to bring in enough money to pay the rent on his apartment.

"An interesting outlook," she commented, after she seemed to search for the right words. "I suppose it's all the same, relationships are just…troublesome I suppose."

Everything she said was surprising him progressively more and more. Had she just agreed with his sentiment that relationships were entirely too troublesome? Without him even having to say it first? This was something new for him. Every woman he ever met always wanted the perfect relationship: meet in high school, stay in love throughout college, get married after, have a house with a white picket fence, and fill it with two and a half children. Moreover, they wanted a sensitive man who would cater to their every need, be able to cook and clean, and would look amazing in a speedo. Such men, Shikamaru knew, did not exist. It was physically impossible for any man to be that way. But this Temari…well, evil as she may have been just a few moments earlier, she was earning a few points in his book with that statement alone. Maybe, just maybe, he could get to like her.

* * *

The afternoon came and went with surprising ease, and before he knew it, Shikamaru knew a lot more about Temari than he had ever wanted to, for better or for worse. He thanked his lucky stars that he'd be granted such a spacious memory and wouldn't forget any of this later. He had been wrong. There really was no way that he could like her, as she was truly evil, if not the Devil herself. It wouldn't surprise him, with the reign she seemed to hold over Starbucks-AKA-Hell. Several times they'd been interrupted by someone stopping to ask for an autograph, or a photo, and she'd graciously given them. So she was a people person. Then why did he need to meet with her? She could have met with anyone: another, bigger photographer, a magazine editor, a fashion designer, and had better luck with things. Maybe that was it, maybe the photographer he was replacing was a much bigger name than himself, and he just didn't know it. He hadn't bothered to ask who he was replacing. 

"Your mother sounds absolutely adorable," Temari said with a slight chuckle, that _grin_ of hers still present, snapping him out of his daze. "But I have to go, so why don't I give you my number, and we'll meet up again some time? After all, we're supposed to be best friends now."

"Oh, yeah, sure," he agreed, reaching for his phone and realizing…it wasn't in his pocket. Genius he was, he had left it at home. "I, uh, left my phone at home thought."

Rolling her eyes, she pulled her purse from where she'd hung it on the back of her chair and began rooting around in it for something. When she seemed to find it, she reached out and grabbed for his hand. He didn't have the time to react, so in and instant, her cold, bony fingers were wrapped around his wrist—and he likened it mentally to the grip of Death—as she scrawled some numbers onto the palm of his hand. Good for her that he didn't often sweat like he had today. Bad for him. Now he was going to be expected to call her and meet again.

"Same time next week, I expect you to be here," she said, more issuing a command than anything, as she focused on gathering her purse and he jacket, looking away just in time to miss him rolling his eyes at her.

Why was she giving him her number if they were just going to meet here again? Unless she really meant…oh Lord, he was going to have to actually call her. He didn't know what he had done to deserve this punishment, but silently promised that he'd go to church and confession every single day if he could just be let out of this, just this once.

* * *

And that was how the photographer Shikamaru came to hate the supermodel Temari, meeting with her once a week at Starbucks Hell, for four months. And she never skipped a week. He questioned how that woman could never get sick, or never have her schedule conflict, or what, and he swore that she went out of her way just to torture him. Even he'd had some scheduling problems, where he'd promised to visit his mother and ended up having to tell her that he was ditching a family dinner to hang out with a supermodel, which delighted his mother to no end and caused him more than enough grief, so much so that he debated lying about it altogether, although she would eventually find out anyway. And he had thought that there was nothing else he could learn about her after that first afternoon, but he had been oh-so-wrong, and she'd managed to squeeze quite a lot of conversation out him as well. When things got boring, he taught her how to compose a photo, and she even had him drag his laptop along to show her how to use Photoshop. To her credit, she absorbed all the information he fed her with amazing ease. 

But at the same time, she wasn't the most pleasant of people. There were times when she was ready to bite his head off, the façade of sweetness all but worn down after the second or third meeting. He really had to tread lightly around her, more so than he had ever had to do with any other woman. He had, in fact, earned himself a smack at his chauvinistic ways, at a later meeting. But no matter how much her temper seemed to get the better of her sometimes—and he now truly understood why she hadn't made any other friends in the fashion industry—she could hold an intelligent conversation as well, which was the only reason he kept going. Or so he told himself. Because the man who supposedly didn't think women were hot was suddenly finding one very, very attractive, and whenever the thought crossed his mind, he would strike it immediately…but couldn't ignore that it had crossed his mind in the first place. No matter. They were just friends, and would thankfully stay that way, and that way only.

At long last, the show was over, and people were beginning to file out. As they did, he dismounted his camera, packing it away carefully along with the folded tripod. Somewhere in the middle of slinging the strap over his shoulder, his pocket began vibrating, the short, rapid bursts that told him he had a text message. With a sigh that no one but him saw or heard, he pulled the obnoxious device and the bane of his existence from his pocket, flipping it open to inspect the screen.

_Usual place. Half hour. y/n?_

As he read it, he could only imagine Temari's stern tone of voice, and thought that giving him the option at the end seemed very unlike her. A formality at best, he figured, and she would probably have his head mounted on her wall if he did say yes, so he texted back his reply. It wasn't like he really had anywhere to be at the moment, except for back home, processing the photos, and the scale balancing work and visiting with Temari tipped only slightly in her direction. Really, it was only because he valued his life so much that he caught a cab once he had finally pushed his way out to the street, through the throngs of people causing a commotion about some model or another who decided to make an appearance to her adoring fans, or something to that effect. As with everything, he _really_ didn't care, instead preferring to hop inside the cab rather than stick around and find out.

"Where ya headed, buddy?" came the usual question from up front.

"103rd and—no. 2780 Broadway, please."

* * *

"Yamanaka Flower Shop, where we put the 'wow' back in—Shikamaru!" 

Instantaneously, the second he stepped in the door, Shikamaru was assaulted by the arms of a blond girl, standing just about half a foot below him, yet still managing to get him in a death grip. To appease Ino, he put his arms around her and gave her a hug, and a good one at that. The girl who had practically been his sister—complete with dragging him on shopping trips and doing makeup experiments on him—was the one girl he never saw anymore. And as troublesome as she could be, he kind of missed her these days. Obviously, she was still working at the flower shop, and while he hoped that she had given up on beauty school, he didn't have the time. He'd have to catch up some other time, but he was already going to be late. He had ten minutes to make his purchase and jog a good five blocks down.

"Ino, listen, it's great to see you, but I'm running late, and I need some flowers, and—"

"Now Shikamaru, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you had a lady in your life," Ino interrupted with a wily look on her face. "I won't keep you then, but I will take an I-O-U on the reunion, okay?"

"Yeah, thanks Ino." Shikamaru breathed a sigh of relief as he watched Ino bustle over to a stand of flowers, inspecting them closely.

"You have to at least tell me what she looks like," Ino said, while she plucked flowers from various places, long blond ponytail swishing behind her. She didn't even look at him as she spoke, while he stood awkwardly in the doorway, but he shrugged regardless. Meandering over to the counter, he plucked a stack of magazines from the other side, shuffled through them, and pulled out the latest issue of Nylon, holding it up for Ino to see when she finally turned around.

"She looks like…_Temari_?" Ino asked, obviously astounded as she began to arrange the flowers she'd chosen in a vase on the other side of the counter. "How'd you find a girl who looks like that?"

"Ino…she doesn't _look_ like her. She _is_ her," Shikamaru explained flatly, and he could see Ino's eyes go wide.

"You mean you…and…and…" she stuttered, looking barely able to conjure the words, and sounding like she might burst out laughing at any second, "And _her_? An _item_?"

When Shikamaru didn't say anything in response, instead placing the magazines back where he found them, blushing slightly when he looked away, the pending laughter spilled out. Rolling his eyes and checking his watch again, he waited for the fit of giggles to subside, glancing around the shop and letting his face cool off a little while he did so. He should have expected such a reaction from her. Really, he should have known that he would get something like this from her, especially when he was in a rush, but he wasn't about to chastise her. After all, he should have known better.

"How did you end up with a girl like her, anyway? She's not exactly your type," Ino finally asked when the laughter had mostly dissipated, with a few chuckles escaping here and there, but overall, she seemed concerned, as she should be. In all the time he'd known her, he couldn't recall expressing interest in a woman.

"We're not really an item or anything," he finally explained, giving an indifferent shrug. "She just likes this sort of thing, I don't know. She yelled at me for not bringing flowers the first time I met her, because I didn't know it would be just her. It was for some publicity thing, and we've been meeting up every week since. I have to call her, too. It's real—"

"Troublesome, I bet," Ino finished, smiling as she looked at her work and tied off the bouquet of flowers. "Well you two _sound_ like an item, but I'll take your word for it. Ranunculus, acacia, and some tulips for good measure. Think you can remember that?"

The only one of those he recognized was the red tulips that Ino pointed out, but he committed the flower names to memory and nodded. "Yeah, how much do I owe you?" he asked, pulling out his wallet as she wrapped it up for him.

"It's on the house," she said with a cheery smile. The smile he had come to learn meant that he had just been suckered into something. "Now you have no excuse not to treat me to lunch some time. Now get going! You're late, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I am. Thanks," he replied with a smirk, leaning over the counter and leaving her with a quick peck on the cheek as he accepted the bouquet. Maybe if he ran…but with his camera bag and the delicate package, that was unlikely.

* * *

When Shikamaru arrived to their normal table a good fifteen minutes late, Temari looked anything but pleased. She was in her usual street attire, nothing special, but she looked particularly evil, especially since he'd just kept her waiting for at least fifteen minutes, if she hadn't been there earlier. For his part, it was the first time he had ever been really unjustifiably late. But that didn't seem to make any difference to her as she crossed her arms over her chest and looked him over. 

"You could have at least texted me," she snapped. He hadn't even sat down yet, and she was already getting on his case.

"I would have…I wanted to…I was going to, but…" Noting that he was stuttering, he paused and took a deep breath before continuing. "Here, these are for you."

"Well I assumed _that_," she remarked scornfully, and took the bouquet from him, inspecting it, scrutinizing it, as if she couldn't just accept the gesture for what it was.

"Acacia, ranunculus, and uhh…some tulips for good measure," he added, finally managing to crawl into his normal chair.

Now she had focused on him, and was giving him the same scrutinizing stare. He wondered what he had done wrong, and hope that she hadn't expected roses. You didn't buy roses for friends as far as he knew, but he was no flower expert. And now she was looking at him rather incredulously.

"Nara. What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, sounding slightly…worried.

"Meaning?" He pondered for a second, but only really knew what red roses meant. "It doesn't mean anything, you just…bitched at me for not getting flowers, and you did well today, so I thought I'd get you some."

As he explained, she seemed to get more and more displeased. What was he doing wrong? She said she wanted flowers, so he got her flowers, and it was a beautiful bouquet, even he knew that. She shouldn't have been angry at him over this, and furthermore, he shouldn't have been disappointed in his failure. But for the life of him, he had no clue what he'd done wrong. Surely Ino wouldn't have sabotaged him with some sort of rude flower meaning that everyone but him knew. And Temari should have figured that those sorts of things weren't his forte. So what in the world was the matter now?

"I get a lot of flowers you know," she finally said, looking away out the window. "So I got bored one day and bought a flower meaning book. Just to entertain myself, to see what sort of stupid messages people were sending. None of them made sense, and I never bought into that stuff anyway. But I learned a lot of the meanings and this…pff, well, it's stupid. You didn't know either, right?"

"No, I want to know what they mean," he said, leaning forward a bit, and suddenly very interested. Ino would have to know what they meant. She must have done it on purpose, knowing that girl, and he wanted to know what message he had just inadvertently sent.

"These, the ranunculus," she explained, pointing out the first of the three major flowers in the bouquet, "Mean radiance. Innocent enough. Acacia? A secret love. And a red tulip…"

She narrowed her eyes, almost angrily, and he leaned forward a little more, although he was probably asking for a beating doing that. But he had to know now. Because by then, it was obvious that he'd said something and hadn't meant it. Now he was fearful for what this would mean for…for their friendship. It disturbed him that his job wasn't the first thing on his mind. He was worried that he actually wouldn't get to see her like this anymore, and would be resigned to looking at the magazines if he wanted to get up close and personal. He _actually_ wanted to spend time around this woman, and that was troubling in itself, just as much as the fact that he might have royally screwed up was troubling.

"Red tulips signify a declaration of love. Pretty dumb, right?" she sneered. "I mean, I was thinking you were saying...but then I realized you wouldn't know something like. Besides, you and me, an item? That's just stupid."

"Heh, yeah, it's pretty stupid," he replied uneasily, scratching at the back of his neck.

Because the fact was, he was starting to think it wasn't. She had forced her way into his life, and ever since then, he had been slowly working her in, first as just a friend, but then…unconsciously into his life plan. He hadn't even meant to do it, but now he could really see her filling that role of the wife he wanted. And she wasn't just some mediocre woman. She was loud, obnoxious, forceful, rude, bitchy…but then again, she was intelligent, refined, elegant, stunningly beautiful. Furthermore, he actually found her…good looking. Which was a feat in itself, and how she managed it, he didn't know. But in the four months they'd known each other, he'd become surprising attached to her, and could almost…see them together. He pondered this in the long awkward silence, while they both sort of stared off into space. She must have been thinking the same thing too, because she looked up at him again, and this time she looked flat out confused.

"It's…not stupid, is it?" she asked warily, as if she were afraid of the answer.

"Not really, no," he said with a shrug, and at that, she went back to staring out the window. "But hey, listen, nothing needs to happen. My friend put that bouquet together, I didn't mean it like that. Temari, you're a good friend, honestly. Troublesome as you are, there's a reason I keep coming back."

"Oh shut it," she grumbled softly, and continued to stare out the window for another minute or two, leaving him to wonder what she was thinking, wondering if she would hate him after this. Sure, he'd get over it if she never wanted to see her again. He'd find another job. But he kind of liked meeting with her ever week like this, and would miss it at least a little bit. He was zoned out when she finally spoke up again.

"Listen Nara," she said flatly, looking at him in a fashion to perfectly match her tone. "You're stuck with me now, so there's no excuses. Your friend? Hah. You just realized what a big mistake you made. Now let's go, I want to drop these by my apartment before they wilt, and then you're taking me somewhere, where everyone will see us. Got it?"

Smirking, Shikamaru nodded, sliding off his chair and offering her a hand to help her down from hers. At that point, he wondered two things. The first was what he had just gotten himself into. In this world, dating a supermodel was risky business, but in a way, he simply…didn't care. If anyone had anything to say, he would brush it off with a 'meh' just like everything else. The second thing was where this apartment—or by his approximation, the Ninth Circle of Hell—was. He was sure he'd need to know it from now on, because he got the feeling that Starbucks was going to be no more and Hell was going to get a little bit hotter.


End file.
